Evanescence
by Zodiark
Summary: What a sad word…


I do not own Square Enix, nor do I own _Final Fantasy Tactics_.

* * *

It was nearing twilight by the time she reached the cemetery. Soft orange light danced upon the horizon, as the setting sun slowly retreated. At the opposite end of the sky, the moon was just beginning its ascent, though it was almost completely invisible. The woman noticed the moon's position carefully, making sure to take note of the time; she could not be here long. She slid gracefully from her chocobo, and, leading it gently to the cast-iron fence, tethered it to a post.

The woman was dressed in elegant, if unconventional, attire. She wore a robe of purest white, which fully covered her slender form. A face with sculpted features stared out from beneath the shadow of the hood, framed by golden locks and soft brown eyes. She was of pale complexion, and her lean physique revealed her to be a warrior. By the state of her clothing and the noble air with which she strode, it was easy to identify her as one of noble birth or purpose.

Brushing a speck of dust off the corner of her robe, she strode towards the locked gates of the cemetery. Carefully she unfastened the latch – it was rusted, and almost useless – and threw the gates open. As if to greet her, she was hit with a cold wind, but she did not shiver. Rather, her hands flew instinctively to the sheathed sword that hung beneath the folds of her robe, as if the wind were a foe.

Sighing, she loosed her grip of the sword and walked slowly down the path. A large tree threw its shadows across the pathway; beneath its branches was a grey boulder of decent size, set with an iron plate. She could faintly distinguish some inscription on the plate, but did not care to read what it said. She passed by the tree with haste, as the shadows in this already darkening time of day did none but disconcert her.

A wind blew past her again, almost as if trying to push her back, away from this place. She ignored the wind's warning, only pausing to tuck a stray lock of golden hair behind an ear. She continued to move, quickly yet gracefully, with all the nobility of a warrior and all the elegance of a lady, evidence of her training.

It had been two years…

The woman paused for a moment. Had it really been that long? Her mind recalled memories of a time that seemed not nearly so long ago, of battles and revelations, of plots uncovered and beasts unleashed…

She closed her eyes for a moment. It really had been that long. Those two years had been a most hellish time. She was sought out by many – by Church officials, who deemed her a heretic; by the crown, who saw her as a dangerous rebel; by so many towns and cities she had lost count. A mere sight was enough to incite panic in most, wholly by the infamy she had gained as an "enemy of the monarchy."

She sighed, flooded with foul memories of sleeping in the open cold, in rain, drenched in mud, soaked to the bone. The image of terrified common folk screaming at the sight of her had engraved itself deeply and permanently within her mind; it frequently surfaced, to the point that it haunted her. The only wish she held was that she might be spared from this most dreadful fate, wherein she could only be lonesome…

Her persecution by the crown and the Church had made any meeting between her or her former allies almost certainly an impossibility. She had neither seen nor spoken to any of her former comrades in the entirety of the two years since…

Raw emotion, which she had for so long withheld, surged through her; she subdued it forcefully, without so much as a teardrop forming at the corner of her eye. She would not lose herself now. It had been two years, two long, cold, lonely years, which she had only survived through the use of primal instinct and avoiding those who would recognize her. Even so, she never could help but think of her former comrades, whose fates were unknown to her.

She had realized that she had stopped before a large granite tomb, with tall, dark columns and a sizeable white sarcophagus within its depths. She could barely make out the white surfaces in the rapidly fading sunlight. A small plaque was set above the columns, identifying the tomb. Her eyes flashed as she read the message.

"Dedicated to Selena Beoulve, beloved wife and mother. Your memory will be held fondly by those who knew you, those who were touched by you, and those who loved you. May the Light of God bring you peace, just as you brought peace to us."

She was getting close.

The path forked here. One way led past a lake, that shimmered brightly as if to spite the retreating light; the other passed through two rows of neatly tended trees, which basked the path in darkness and blanketed it in leaves. The woman realized the air was now chill enough to reduce her breaths to mist. The moon had gained ground since she last looked; the sun was nearly gone. She would need to hurry.

Steadying herself, she took the path through the rows of trees. She was not certain that this was the right path, but something within her told her it was the way. Thus far, she had survived to a great extent as a result of her instinct, and she doubted it would fail her now. She hated to place her trust in something so abstract, but there was nothing else to trust.

She moved hastily. Though she did not break into a run, her feet moved rapidly; she had no time to stop and smell the daisies, now. She had to reach it. She had to see it. She had to see it with her own two eyes…

She had to.

The trees on either side seemed to whisper to her as she passed by; they seemed to almost warn her, telling her in hushed words to turn back. She refused. By no means would she stop now, not after she had risked so much to go here, not after she had steeled her resolve to see what she knew she had to see.

As she continued, the warnings grew louder and more hostile. The trees' whispers were harsh, now; they commanded that she turn back, and backed their words with biting winds. Their warnings fell on deaf ears, for she would not turn back. In fact, she realized that the winds and the warnings only served to drive her forward more quickly. They could not stop her now.

The windy voices of the trees faded to silence.

Suddenly she was past the trees; she was in a small clearing, enclosed on all sides by tall trees. Far before her, though prominent enough to be spotted in the growing darkness, was a large grey tombstone. Nearby was a row of smaller graves, lined by a path that seemed to trail off elsewhere through the trees. A sudden sense of apprehension seized her, and her warrior's instinct flared. Her fingers flew to the hilt of her sword, but she did not draw it.

She closed her eyes, and collected herself. Her grip on her sword loosened, and her hand fell to hand once again at her side. She inhaled deeply, taking in the refreshing coldness that smelt of pine and approaching winter. She kept herself from growing nervous; that was important. Finally, she opened her eyes, and continued, having calmed herself sufficiently.

Before they dispersed two years ago, she and her comrades had received the word of the grave's description. They had said it was a small grave, almost ordinary, except that it was at a crossroad in the graveyard, with an engraved angel that rose from the headstone. Just as she scanned these facts in her mind, her eyes fell upon a grave of that exact description, and her blood ran cold.

It was truly there. Her heart began beating frantically; she felt her fingers go numb through a mixture of the cold and this sudden nervousness. She hesitantly approached the grave, trying her best not to lose herself completely. Each step was shakier and less coordinated than the last. The closer she became to the grave, the more her heart swelled with sorrow and nostalgia, nostalgia for a time long since past, when at least she was not alone…

Her eyes began to swim with tears – surprised, she lifted a gloved hand to wipe them away – as she gazed upon the epitaph.

"Here lies Alma Beoulve, youngest daughter of the noble family of Beoulve. May the suffering she endured in life be cast aside in the eternal embrace of Heaven."

She surrendered herself to the emotion she had locked within her for so long. Feelings of sorrow, of longing, of friends lost, of love shattered… They had been imprisoned within her heart for two years, two cold, unforgiving, merciless years. Before she knew what she was doing, she was kneeling against the gravestone, sobbing. Tears spilled forth from her eyes, sliding down her ivory cheeks to soak the stone below. There was no holding anything back, now.

It was a while before she realized she had stopped crying; the only remnants were those tears that had refused to fall, and the moist trails that ran from her eyes to the well-cut ends of her cheeks. She swept these away with a sleeve and stood up, brushing the dirt off of her knees. She stared sorrowfully towards the gravestone itself, reading the epitaph again.

She opened her mouth to speak, but no words came. She closed them again, to ponder what exactly she could say, but before she could so much as think, the words burst forth of their own accord.

"I miss you, Ramza."

She took a deep breath, and continued.

"I've spent these past two years in solemn silence. Not a day has passed since we disbanded that I have not thought of you or what you stood for, Ramza. Memories are all I have left of you. I feel lost, and I am so very lonely. I miss the times when… we were together. Certainly, we were not together in a happy time… but when we were together, at least I had some sense of peace."

She looked towards the sky for a moment. A dark ribbon of night had strung its away across the sky, shining with stars. The sun's last rays were all that remained of it; the moon was well on its way to the pinnacle of the sky, now. She glanced back down at the grave.

"I do not miss the evils we faced, or the trials we overcame. They have shaped me greatly, but I wish not to relive them. Even so… I find myself occasionally wishing we were once again facing those evils, overcoming those trials… so that I might be back to that time where I knew you.

"I… still can't believe you are gone, Ramza. It seems so surreal, even after two years. What we… What you were able to do was a miracle, one that not even the zodiac crystals could replicate. You, Ramza… You were the savior of Ivalice. A savior that Ivalice would not accept, but one all the same. No words can describe how indebted I feel to you, for your sacrifice, Ramza…

"I suppose I might tell you of what has transpired in these past two years. Delita named himself king, taking Ovelia as his bride. She bore him a daughter, whom they named Teta. Ovelia died on her birthday, some months ago. Apparently, some remnant of the war assassinated her, in Zeltennia, no less. Her death hurts me just as yours does, Ramza. Yet there is no hope that I might see her grave, or be consoled by her loss.

"Alma was Ovelia's most trusted friend, I remember. I hope… I hope they are together in eternity, where they might not face the trials of this earth.

"I have not heard of the others in these past two years. I wish I did. I think of them often. Like you, all I have now of them is memories. I only wish that they have survived as long as I have… Persecution against us is strong, by both the Church and crown. Neither Delita nor the High Priest wants us to remain living. The new High Priest is a cruel and mindless man, oblivious to the corruption born by Vormav. He sees us only as heretics, and hunts us as such."

She stared towards her feet for a moment, before looking back up at the grave.

"Of all my hopes, Ramza, my hope that you have found peace is my greatest. We faced so much adversity here on earth… I hope that adversity has left you, wherever you are now. I…"

Her lips fumbled to complete the thought that had suddenly forced its way to her lips.

"I…"

The winds howled against her; she felt tears form again. Whether these tears had formed to keep her eyes moist, or as testaments of her emotion, she did not know.

"Ramza…"

She closed her eyes, staring towards the ground.

"Ramza, I love you."

The sentence, finally spoken, seemed to evanesce into the air just as she spoke it. Silence was her only response, save the slight hiss of the wind.

She grimly accepted this reply.

She pulled the rose out from a pocket in her robe. Thankfully, it was not bent, though its petals seemed to have wilted some. There was no helping that now, though. Gracefully, she leant over the grave and set the rose just before the headstone. It lay there, gently caressed by the wind; the petals seemed to rustle in the wind.

Staring at the flower, a thousand painful memories rushed to the forefront of her mind. Memories of the rare smile of a princess, of the laughter from a hero, of his soft yet noble voice… As they flashed before her eyes, she let the emotions take hold of her once more.

She closed her eyes one final time, letting the tears form. As she opened her eyes, they broke and fell, sliding down her cheeks, plummeting to the dark earth below. She wiped away the rivulets, and turned away.

Agrias Oaks would never again return to the grave.


End file.
